By The Stone
by coreyjotunn
Summary: Grit had been a brand, but was the Commander of the Grey now, bent on protecting Amaranthine. But then he had saved that Legionnaire from Kal'Hirol, and she had survived her joining. And now she was torturing him.


It was the way she had said it. "It's you! You're the Duster that became a Grey Warden!" Like she couldn't believe it, even though he stood right in front of her. But then he remembered Dust Town. He hadn't been there in years now, not since he had helped put that bastard Bhelen on the throne. The things he did for Rica and her brat. And because the way Harrowmont had looked at him, like he had accidentally wondered into Dust Town and the dwarf that was trying to save the world was still nothing but a casteless piece of nug shite. So Grit had smiled, and then walked out of that bastards house and right into the Royal Palace. He heard they were planning on making him a Paragon for what he'd done. There had only been two of his blood that had looked at him as anything other than casteless. Caridin, the Golem that had taken his own life after the defeat of Branka, and Oghren, who had joined him here now. A warrior born. Just like Grit, but with the actual papers in the Shaperate to prove it.

And still Sigrun looked at him like he didn't exist. They were back at Vigil, and Grit was washing the stink and stain of blood and the Blackmarsh from his armour. The Legion armour. He knew she recognized it. He had found it, piece by piece, in the deep roads, when they had tried to find the approval of a Paragon to crown the King, to pull the dwarven armies to war. Piece by piece, slogging through the hordes of Darkspawn around every corner. The Broodmother... he shivered, thinking about that abomination. And then he had killed more at the ancient thaig of Kal'Hirol. Where they had found Sigrun. With a snarl, he flung away his breastplate, cursing loudly as it knocked over a table and smashed the bowls that had been sitting on top of it. Now he was going to hear it from the servants. The few that the Mistress had been able to pull in. No one wanted to come to the safety of the Keep, afraid that the darkspawn would attack. He stood and took deep breathes in an attempt to calm himself. He had to calm himself. He wasn't a berserker like Oghren, apparently the poor little rogues couldn't harness that class, but his anger still boiled hot and close to the surface. All of his emotions did, but no where so bad as at Vigil's Keep.

He had a theory about it. They were over the Deep Roads, and with as many Darkspawn in Amaranthine as there was, they were always there. Making him on edge. Dragging his concentration away, little razor knives of anger and rage that drug themselves across his raw nerves. Not even in sensing them could he be free of the hate they made boil up in his body. Before he realized what he was doing, his fist slammed into a pillar of the room, dust falling from the rafters. Then he heard a noise. That wasn't a mouse, it wasn't a bird, it was a foot. A foot with a metal boot on it moving across the floor. Reaching down for his axes, he stealthed himself, blending in with the shadows as he looked around the room. He couldn't see anything. He knew that Nathaniel wouldn't come in here for any reason, so that left him with one rogue. Sigrun. Why was she in here? Didn't she have to haunt him enough, wanting to go on every mission with him? The three dwarves worked good together, especially with the Keeper and her magic backing them up, but damned if he wasn't done with it. Between Ohgren's stench and hers, -_but you're lying Grit, you know that you think she smells good, like ale and ore and gold_- he just wanted five minutes to himself.

So he stepped forth from the shadows, moonlight bathing his body as his eyes searched the room. He kept his head shaved, the stark black tattoos standing out on his scalp, down his forehead, his brows, his cheeks. Even his lips. But the brand stood out still. One of the laws of Orzammar. If a brand was tattooed, then they had to be able to tell the brand was still there. If you were raised up for any reason, you could get it covered. Grit could get his covered. But he didn't. He wanted every nug sucking bastard sculptor to have to carve the brand on a Paragon's statue. And if they didn't, he would personally go back to the Thaig to carve them himself. More tattoos ran down his form, the geometric forms that the dwarves preferred inked over pale skin, where it wasn't covered in the black hair that made him look like a bear. Scars crisscrossed his form as well, some from his old life. Some, like the one that ran from his shoulder to his hip where the Archdemons claws had shredded armour like paper, were a bit more prestigious.

"Sigrun." His voice was raspy. Dragon fire, rage demons, mages. Those flames licking the walls of your throat while you fought would do that to you. "I know you're in here. Come on. I don't have all night."

Laughter. Oh how he hated her laugh. It did things to him. He had always been preoccupied with his skills growing up, and had never really paid attention to any dwarven woman. Until Sigrun. He hated how she had locked into him, like some pesky jewelsmith setting a rough diamond in a sword hilt. There was no need for it. But once it was there, it was there. He felt her breath on the nape of his neck as she stepped out from the shadows, the slim blade of her dagger coming under his beard, nestling in there against his neck. That damned voice.

"C'mon Commander, are you getting that rusty?" He could almost hear the smile on her lips. "Or am I just that much better than you?"

He kicked back, spinning away from her blade and grabbing her wrist. She fought back, throwing a fist when he jerked the blade from her hand and tossed it away. He took the blows and gave his own back, but she had the advantage of wearing armour while he stood their in his underclothes. Finally he got the upper hand, slamming her into the wall with his forearm barring across her chest, keeping her against the wall. And then she laughed again, like it was some great game.

"Well, well. At least you've got some skill Salroka, and didn't lose it up here on the surface." She looked down at his arm, and then back at him, lifting one brow as she stared. "You can let go of me anytime now."

He chuckled, stepping closer to her. "I think I'd rather do this. I've been wantin' too since Kal'Hirol." And then he kissed her. Hard as stone, like he was all over, he kissed her, his lips pressing against hers. He didn't care what happened after this, he just needed to get this out of him. Try to tame the lava that she made flow through his veins. Finally, but too soon, the kiss ended, and he stepped back, dropping his arm. Sigrun stood there a moment, and then she tackled him. His hands flew up around his head to prepare the defend himself, but she didn't strike him. Instead, she pulled them apart and looked in his eyes.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you to do that, you stupid rock licker." Then she returned his kiss.


End file.
